


Only Thing That's Real

by alwaysbeliev



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kidnapping, M/M, Multi, Protective Arthur Morgan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:22:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29419350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alwaysbeliev/pseuds/alwaysbeliev
Summary: You had imagined your death many times. Living with a gang of outlaws, the subject came up frequently, and you had always known you would go out at a younger age. But not like this. At the hands of a greasy O’Driscoll, head blown away by a shotgun, almost starved to death and in your underthings. You had hoped more for something like taking a stand against a lifetime arch nemesis or protecting a fellow gang member. And definitely not in front of Arthur.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Reader, Arthur Morgan/You
Comments: 1
Kudos: 27





	Only Thing That's Real

Pain. All you knew was pain. Both inside and out, your body was on fire, both scalding hot and ice cold, flashing rapidly in waves. You had thrown up the last contents of your stomach and more, leaving nothing else but blood now. It was difficult to hold your head up, to look at anything with your eyes open more than halfway, hair falling every which way.

A door opening somewhere nearby caused an involuntary flinch in you. Cold air hit your face and you took a shuddering breath. Sunlight you hadn’t seen in what felt like ages flooded the small cellar.

“Hey, girlie.” The derisive voice of a man echoed around you, filling your ears and finding the deeply rooted fear you didn’t know you still had. Fear meant you still had a hope of getting out. “Brought ya some food. Weren’t sure what ta feed a cow, but there was some grass outside, so here ya go.” A bowl clattered to the ground, just inches from you. With your hands pinned behind the post you were strapped to, you had no hope of reaching it without some superhuman flexibility. It wasn’t grass, like he had said. It wasn’t much better, either, but the stabbing aches in your stomach begged you to try for it. Desperately you leaned forward, your efforts in vain. The man laughed, short and cruel.

“Please.” The word was nowhere near audible. Vocal cords raspy, throat dry beyond the deserts of New Austin, you somehow gathered just enough saliva to wet it before trying again. “Please.”

In two heartbeats, the man had bent down and gripped your throat roughly, forcing you to look at his face. It was dirty and scarred, his breath smelled of death. If you had anything left inside of you, it wouldn’t have lasted long. His fingernails dug into your jawline and you gasped. Tears you didn’t know you still had filled your eyes.

“You don’t get to beg,” he growled. With his other hand, he stroked the loose strands of hair from your face, and you tried to move away but he held you fast. “Colm made it right clear to Dutch. You ain’t got no room for negotiations.” Before you could react, he spat in your face, spraying your skin and mixing with the tears soaking your cheeks. He released you with a shove. “Don’ go forgettin’, now. We’ll be back. Eventually.” One last cold chuckle hung in the air before the sunlight was gone. 

A choked sob broke out of you. Every time you thought you had nothing left, no more sadness to expel, they came back to taunt you. You felt like a child like this, crying and shuddering, body shaking in agony, but you couldn’t help yourself. 

It had been days, you assumed, since you had last seen the gang. Honestly, you had lost track of the passage of time. In an attempt to keep your wits, you had tried to track how frequently they came to see you, how often the beatings happened, but after the first couple, your mind was too bleary and your muscles too weak to do anything beyond cry and sleep. They seemed to bring you a meal or two a day, so you knew it had been at least four days now. Surely Dutch, Arthur, _somebody_ was coming. A conversation you had had months ago was echoing on repeat in your head.

_“What happens if we’re caught?”_

_You and Arthur were crouched in the bushes outside a small camp. O’Driscolls, you knew from the Irish lilt to some of the voices. The two of you were out on a leisurely horse ride through the plains when you saw the campfire smoke. Bored, you were delighted to find some enemies. Returning his gaze from the campsite, Arthur turned his attention to you once more._

_“If one of us is caught,” he explained, his tone suggesting there was a policy in place for it, “the other gets the hell outta here. Ride back to camp, alert the others, and leave a couple days of cool off. Don’t let ‘em find ya searchin’ for me. Then you can come looking.”_

_The trust you had in that man was astounding. You would have let him talk you into walking into hell, if the subject ever came up. Nodding, you repeated it back to him, just to assure him you had heard. Then, on the count of three, you charged the camp._

The allotted time had passed, you were sure. Maybe the trail was cold by now. Maybe the O’Driscolls this time had dragged you further away than the gang was looking. Maybe, and your heart loathed to entertain this thought, they had given up on you and considered you a lost cause. Your breathing was shallower now as the sobs faded away. There was no way Arthur would have let you go like that, you just knew it. _Maybe not Arthur, but others…_

_“How come you always hug me so tight?” you teased. The outlaw had approached you from behind and wrapped his arms around you like a boa constrictor, nearly crushing your ribs as he peppered your cheek with kisses. You faced him now, both of you grinning like giddy teenagers._

_“I don’t wanna lose you,” he admitted, shrugging in an attempt to be nonchalant. It was a moment of weakness you hadn’t expected from him. After a surprised pause, you threw your arms around him, squeezing him as tightly as you could. No words were exchanged, but you mustered all your thoughts and love and tried to convey it through the hug. He gratefully returned it._

Your knees burned against the raw dirt of the floor. Grunting in pain, you shifted to sit flat, legs extended. Carefully, you maneuvered around the bowl still in front of you, not wanting to kick it away. You hoped you could get it close enough to eat. How you would get it to your mouth, you weren’t too sure of yet, but you wanted it badly enough, you were sure you would work it out. 

You hooked your heel around the bowl and pulled your leg in closer, causing the bowl to slide and bump into you. It had what looked like a small spoonful of peas from a can and a stale chunk of bread. A rumble rolled deep in your stomach at the sight of real food. There had been nothing but wet oats, dry oats, and, your last meal, some inedible mixture of cold coffee and what you guessed was leftover mash. 

Desperately, you bent forward, pulling your ropes to their end and stretching your muscles past their safe point. Some pain, you had become completely numb to in favor of helping yourself. You could just barely lick at the food on the plate. In a sharp motion, you dove down and caught the bread chunk in your teeth, sitting up victoriously to chew through it with no hands. It was gone in a matter of seconds. You couldn’t bother with the peas, you knew, but the bread would be enough for now. With a heavy sigh, you leaned back again, allowing your eyes to slide closed and the exhaustion to overtake you again.

\---------------------------

A bang snapped you awake. The room was dark, the candle having burned out long ago, indicating it was night time. Confusion and fear flooded you at the cacophony of sounds. Hoarse voices shouting, loud guns firing, horses hooves trampling across the ground. Right before you started making sense of things, the door flew open, slamming against the wall. 

“Let’s go,” snapped a gravelly voice. With less than kind hands, a thin man cut through your ties and gripped you by your hair, dragging you to the entrance. Up the stairs you went, hands scrabbling at the man who held you. Squeaks of pain were pulled involuntarily from you. At the top of the stairs, you were thrown unceremoniously on the ground. The cold and familiar feeling of a shotgun barrel pressed against the back of your head and you froze. Eyes stared hard at the earth below you as the air became eerily still.

“Don’t NOBODY move, or we’ll see just how pretty their insides are, too!”

You had experienced so many kinds of fear in your time in the cellar. Hands pressed against the dirt, feeling the grass blades, heart pounding, agonizingly aware of just how alive you were in this minute, this was the most raw and primal fear you had felt yet. And death was steeled against you, icing your gut and causing an intensely physical reaction that stopped any tears from coming. Or perhaps the dehydration had finally caught up with you.

“Now, son, let’s not make any rash decisions,” a voice layered thick with charm said. _Dutch. They had finally found me._

“Put the gun down!” demanded another familiar voice, each syllable punctuated with wretched emphasis. _Arthur._ Now came the tears, this time of relief, and you watched them drip onto the ground beneath you.

“And why the hell would I go and do a thing like that?” The click of a finger on a trigger being set sent your heart and breathing into overdrive. You mouthed pleas for mercy, but no sound came out. “You fools need to learn your place! Colm wants this one for himself, now, we don’t wanna deny him!” He seemed to sense the power he held over his assailants as the man suddenly grabbed you by the hair once more, forcing you into a standing position and pulling you close, the gun now pressed to your temple and his free arm wrapped tight around your neck. 

You had imagined your death many times. Living with a gang of outlaws, the subject came up frequently, and you had always known you would go out at a younger age. But not like this. At the hands of a greasy O’Driscoll, head blown away by a shotgun, almost starved to death and in your underthings. You had hoped more for something like taking a stand against a lifetime arch nemesis or protecting a fellow gang member.

Time seemed to slow down as you made eye contact with Dutch and then Arthur. Never had you seen the anguish in those blue eyes. He shifted as though to take a step forward before he saw the shotgun against your head again. In one hand, he held a long gun, his favorite, you knew, for more accurate distance shots. His other was outstretched to you. You tried your hardest to send him some sort of nonverbal message. 

You were jostled backwards by your captor, your bare feet skidding on the ground and leaving tracks. You coughed from the pressure on your neck. Dutch’s hand found Arthur’s chest and kept him in place as you were moved further from your saviors. 

“Please, let me go,” you managed to choke out.

“Not on my dime. We got plans for you.”

“I hope your death is in those plans, jackass!” Arthur cried out. Without warning, a crack rent the air and you were sprayed with blood that wasn’t yours, the arm holding you suddenly going limp and followed by another sharp crack as the shotgun was fired randomly. The O’Driscoll dropped like a ragdoll to the ground, half of his head missing, and you found yourself on your hands and knees once more. Footsteps pounded towards you and you were suddenly facing Arthur, the worry and tension clear in his face as he looked you over, gripping your shoulders tightly.

“Arthur,” you gasped, voice cracking. “Arthur…”

“Hey, hey, ‘sokay, darlin’,” he assured you, pulling you into him as trembling sobs wracked your body for the hundredth time. “I’m here now. They can’t hurt you anymore. You’re safe now, you’re safe…”

“I’m so tired. Everything hurts, I’m hungry, I just wanna lay down.” You were barely coherent, you knew that, but you couldn’t stop yourself from talking. The relief you felt at being safe in his arms again was surreal. “I’m so tired, Arthur.”

“I know,” he soothed, stroking your hair. “Come on, let’s get you home, now, get you cleaned up and fed so you can sleep.”

“Please don’t leave me,” you begged. It was the one clear statement you were able to make.

“No, ‘course not,” Arthur promised, pulling back just slightly to look you in the eyes. Questions were piling up in his face, you could see it, but he stopped himself from asking them just yet. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere, darlin’, come on. Let’s get back to camp.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally going to be a one-shot, but it kept getting longer and longer and I still have more I want to write. It won't be very long, just a few parts, but it's going to be mostly angst with just a dash of comfort. Let me know what you think!


End file.
